


the long game

by adjourn



Category: Now You See Me (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Dylan Has Issues, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, but that's okay because he also has Atlas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 22:36:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7333381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adjourn/pseuds/adjourn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I want to save someone," Dylan says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the long game

**Author's Note:**

> i just got a lot of gay vibes from dylan/atlas during nysm2, and then mark ruffalo was so goddamn cute and bam. this cheesy lil thing happened. much love to you all
> 
> also i cannot imagine dylan calling daniel anything but atlas lmao. except in bed.

 

 

 

 

For as long as Dylan can remember, it’s been about the game. He feels it — often — drawing him toward a particular path or choice, smiling with sultry lips and murmuring _blood, power, vengeance_. The game drives him to the agency, to the Eye; it cultivates his very self. Dylan thinks that he did not exist until his father's death. In any case, he cannot recall any life before it.

When he scours the country for the proper tools to complete his life's work, watching and following them carefully, cataloging their every step (he knows it's creepy, he knows, he has pages upon pages of research about the various candidates, analyzing their childhood traumas down to the way they take their coffee and back over to past lovers, employers, close friends, but he has to know everything if they're going to be perfect), he's vibrating with electric lust, with the chase in his veins and the furious fucking need for his fingers to wrap around Bradley's neck, until he's choking, suffocating, drowning, or maybe for the defeat in his glassy eyes as he sits behind steel bars, or maybe for, for … something. Dylan doesn't know what it is, but he needs it, has needed it all his life (or at least the part of his life that has mattered). And goddamn if he won't get it.

 

.

 

It is all carefully planned. For the sake of Dylan's greater good, he must make sure the Horsemen's strings are fixed tight yet easy for him to move. He records their various character flaws, things he can capitalize on, use to his advantage and, if all goes well, to theirs.

In his notes on Jack Wilder, Dylan writes _desperate need for approval; see: negligent/borderline abusive parents._

In his notes on Merritt McKinney, he writes _loner but desires familial affection, sibling complex._

In his notes on Henley Reeves, he writes _wants to prove herself greater than male company, esp. Candidate A1: Atlas._

And on J. Daniel Atlas, he writes _has to the best. Control freak._

But, reflecting, Dylan notes Atlas might not be the only one with control issues after all.

 

.

 

Even after joining their ranks, the Eye is mostly a mystery to him. They communicate through encrypted messages, a different code nearly every time, that Dylan has to spend hours researching and ciphering. He gets the hang of it eventually, learns to spot the telltale signs of which culture a cipher belongs to, recognizes the curvature of scripts and memorizes countless alphabets. He ends up both an expert in scouring the web and the owner of a thorough collection of encryption books. The way they leave messages differs, too: a card by his bedside when he wakes, a scribbled note on the side of his water bottle, and once, memorably, a carrier pigeon.

He never directly meets anyone from the Eye. Dylan only knows they exist because of the resources they provide him. During the time that he's hunting Bradley, he is content with this distance, doesn't ask questions. Frankly, he couldn't care less about the man behind the curtain and cannot afford to be distracted by the mystery.

The Eye of Horus, Alma reads, fascinated. Dylan is not lying when he says he doesn't care.

 

.

 

Mrs. Shrike kills herself four months after his father's show: swallows a bottle of antidepressants the psychiatrist had prescribed a while back. Dylan finds her in the bedroom when he comes home from school.

When he interviews for the agency, they ask him why he wants this. He pictures the sharp, white spray as the safe hits the water, remembers clutching his mother's limp hands.

"I want to save someone," Dylan says.

 

.

 

There is Atlas.

 

.

 

The first time he visits Atlas in person, after Alma returns to France ( _you're beautiful but you're empty_ , she quotes, _one could not die for you. At least, not me_ ), after everything with Bradley is done, the kid is unabashedly thrilled.

"Dylan, come in, why are you here — I mean, I wasn't expecting you, anyway I'm glad you're here, sit down, yeah the couch is good, when's the next show?" the words come out in one breath, and Atlas' eyes gleam.

"I haven't received definitive plans yet. Sorry."

Atlas' enthusiasm dims, but he carries on. "That's fine. Ancient underground organizations, you know, what can you do."

"We'll keep rehearsing for now. I'm sure we'll have something big soon," Dylan lies.

"No doubt," Atlas says, earnest. It's naively optimistic of him, and Dylan can't help but find this endearing. "Well, what brings you to my grand palace?" He motions at the dumpy apartment.

Dylan finds he cannot answer this. I wanted to see you, I think you're brilliant, you're the only thing that has held my interest since I put my father's murderer in prison. "Thought we would practice a little. You could work on your hypnotism."

"Right, come to mock me. One of my own favorite past-times, actually." Atlas strides to the kitchen and starts to rifle through his fridge.

"I'm being serious. I've done my fair share of work in it," Dylan says. "Don't you want to show up Merritt?"

Atlas turns his way, wielding two beers and an intrigued purse to his lips. Dylan smiles.

 

.

 

He visits all of them, of course. Shows Jack some new card tricks, points out resistances to Merritt's hypnotism, breaks chains with Henley. But he visits Atlas most of all, and it's a bit too noticeable during their group rehearsals, the way that Atlas has picked up more new skills and quirks only Dylan can be responsible for. Dylan foresees this becoming a problem with Henley, and he's right. His favoritism toward Atlas disturbs her enough that she becomes bitter, impatient, and leaves the group in a righteous huff and whirl of red. Of course, Dylan has a backup ready, so he can't say he's particularly despairing. Atlas and the rest of them are still there, anyway. That's enough.

 

.

 

Dylan doesn't necessarily run out of things to teach Atlas, but there are some skills that must be developed on your own, he explains. Moreover, he is human and therefore selfish. He wants something more than this, and Dylan gets what he wants, even if it costs him 30 years and his entire identity. So he starts hanging around after they're done working, listens to Atlas ramble about the myths of Horus and the Eye, about his proudest tricks and past studies.

"It's always the Egyptians, doesn't anyone ever notice that," Atlas says, absently shuffling his favorite deck.

"I bribed a tower technician," Atlas says, wearing a slight smile, unrepentantly smug, the way he always is when he's talking about his shows, "almost got me laid. Then I got your card, thanks a lot. No really, thank you, joining a secret society is way better than sex."

"Dropped out of college, was boring. My mom wanted me to have an exit route if magic didn't pan out, get a degree and the works, I'm sure it wouldn't have been difficult. But there was no way it wouldn't pan out," Atlas says, very factual.

"My magic role model? I don't do role models. I'm a role model for myself," Atlas pauses, "You know, I do realize how much of a dick I sound like sometimes. That, that was dick-ish. But you never seem to comment when I say things like that. Everyone else would have. Does."

Dylan laughs. "I don't mind. I'm kind of a dick myself. I'm sure you noticed that."

"Don't worry, I have," Atlas says, but he's half-grinning, a little tipsy from the cheap beer they've been drinking all night. They're sitting close together on the couch, thighs touching, and Dylan has his arm stretched on the couch, around the breadth of Atlas' shoulders. Atlas leans in, and Dylan can't deduce whether it's a subconscious shift or not.

"No role models at all, then?" Dylan says. It's almost a murmur. They are inches apart by the nose. Dylan's eyes flicker to the thin curve of Atlas' mouth, and looks up in time to see Atlas drop his gaze to Dylan's lips, too.

"None. I've had inspirations, though," Atlas says. His cheek are flushed a pretty pink.

"Oh?" Dylan brings his hand to Atlas' thigh, a warm pressure. "Like who?"

"Just a few. Dante. Blake. Shrike. If I'm being generous, you—"

The name washes over Dylan like ice water. He pulls back abruptly and stands. Atlas looks up at him, confused, a bit hurt.

"I have to go," Dylan says. Leaves.

 

.

 

Dylan can admit this to himself: He hates his father a little. He hates him for his stupidity, his weakness at being goaded into an impossible act. He hates the ineptitude that resulted in his death. He hates that his father cared more about magic than he cared about his family, that he left Dylan behind, that Dylan wasn't enough, in the end, for either of his parents. He hates that his father haunts him, that he can apparently never be rid of the cold from that night, of the air freezing against his skin and the fear in his lungs which, chilled over, turns him numb. He hates that exacting revenge upon Bradley didn't erase the hollow space inside him. He hates that it seems like it will always be there, a part of him, inexorable.

In his notes on himself, Dylan would write _abandonment issues, tunnel vision, can't have any real emotional connection because he won't get over his father's death from 30 fucking years ago._

 

.

 

He doesn't visit Atlas anymore. It's for the best, Dylan thinks. The game is still inexplicably there with him, a heavy weight in his step, oppressive, searching for nothing at all, and he cannot even begin to love someone when it occupies his being so completely.

Atlas doesn't look him in the eye for a while — until he does. It's almost resentful. Certainly challenging. The months pass. The look stays.

Dylan ignores it. Lets it go.

That's on him.

 

.

 

Dylan never fakes the anger. It bottles up inside him as a child, hungry and malicious, until one day when he's 15 the glass cracks and he puts a kid in the hospital. Dylan doesn't even remember what he said that made him so angry. Something silly, he supposes. Normal, taunting kid stuff. But God had it felt good when his nose had broken against Dylan's fist, when his arm cracked under Dylan's heel.

A lawsuit is avoided. Dylan dislocates his own shoulder, pretends it was from the fight. They're even, he says. Forget about it.

But he can't forget, even when he learns control and discipline in the agency. Violence, anger — it feels damn good, feels like a live wire under his skin, itching to shock something, someone.

 

.

 

It's all on him. The Octa disaster, the FBI, Macau. The dismissal on Atlas' face, the barely masked hurt, the twinge of guilt when he says "we don't need you." Tressler, Mabry, Bradley. Dylan wants to kill them. One, two, three necks snapping, the magic number. He plans to, he's thinking about it as he walks away from Atlas.

But the marketplace is brimming with bodies, the cold chased away by street-food fires and red lamplights and Atlas, marvelous, he thinks that he'll be damned if he's going to leave things like that between them. Not when this was his doing. Even if it hadn't been. God, he'll be fucking damned.

So he goes back. Doesn't expect to have to save Atlas, but is glad for it. He makes sure to shove Atlas away before he sees the look on the kid's face, whatever it may be.

 

.

 

In the days following his father's death, Dylan destroys all the magic supplies he owns — all given to him by a now-dead man. He sparks up the fireplace and throws each card in separately, taking furious pleasure in the sight of the paper blackening and curling in on itself. When his mother walks in, she shrieks and slaps and bans him from the living room, so he runs off when night falls and hurls everything else into the ocean. The tide washes boxes and hats and dumb fake flowers away. He imagines them fighting the current, clawing at the feeble ground, bleeding for the effort; he imagines them sinking, slow enough to watch the light of the stars fade, until they're reaching for a blank sky.

After that's done, he owns nothing more of his father's. Absolutely nothing. Lionel Shrike willed his fortune and magic collection to some strange shop in China, and the rest of his possessions to charity.

The watch is the very first thing belonging to his father Dylan has touched in decades. It is tight around his wrist when Dylan is at the bottom of the river, staring up at the sky. Tight enough to squeeze a bit of the emptiness, the anger out.

 

.

 

Hours later, Dylan is laying on a cot in Iong's, having woken from a much-needed nap. He can hear in the adjacent room voices planning for the final show. Atlas is unusually quiet; Dylan doesn't hear him speaking at all.

"Hi," Atlas says from a chair beside him. Ah. That explains it.

"I've been waiting for you to wake up," for once, Atlas points out the obvious. "I want to apologize. Properly. So you would remember. You seemed pretty lucid after I got you out of the river, but, uh, I want to make sure that you hear it clearly. So: I'm sorry." He doesn't meet Dylan's gaze.

Dylan sits up. It hurts, everything hurts, but he can't be fucked to care. He wants to look Atlas in the face when he has this conversation. "Apology accepted. I'm sorry, too. For it all. Don't — don't say that I'm not at fault," he adds when Atlas beings to protest. "I've been a bit of a dick."

"Well, you did tell me about that."

"I did. You told me, too." Dylan grins. "So I guess we're even."

Atlas' lips thin, holding back, but his eyes are alight. "I guess so."

"Then it's alright if I kiss you?" Dylan moves in close; he can count the shadow of each eyelash upon Atlas' pale cheek.

Atlas says, "I don’t know. That seems like a non-sequitur."

Of course, they're both magicians. The rules of logic mean nothing to them.

 

.

 

Dylan Shrike. He hasn't gone by that name in a very long time. He is a little boy again, watching with childlike wonder the thousands of people on the edge of the river, cheering with wild abandon. Abruptly, a frisson of fear strikes him, but when he looks to his right, there is Lula and Jack and Merritt, and to his left, there is Atlas. Atlas and the rest of the world.

The London sky is lit up by bursts of color. Explosions and applause flash like lightning.

Dylan doesn't look away from Atlas. Not once.

 

.

 

He can picture Bradley and his father together: laughing over an old story, sharing a drink, swapping card tricks. It startles him how easily the images come. Maybe they are more memory than imagination, scenes he had deleted in his obsessed rage.

"I'm looking him in the eye," Bradley says. He smiles kindly.

Dylan doesn't think he deserves Bradley's forgiveness, much less his respect. He knows his own failings too intimately for that. In fact, Dylan might not ever be able to regard himself so highly. But that's alright, because —

 

.

 

The game is over. He finally has it — what he's needed all these years. Dylan doesn't know quite what it is, but goddamn if it isn't his.

Well, maybe he has some idea, Dylan thinks as Atlas draws him close, eyes gleaming, in a house of unmarked magic.


End file.
